A Midnight Stroll Through Gotham
by Eliase Espynwislyn
Summary: Join me for a midnight stroll through Gotham; five short character sketches.


Welcome, dear reader, to Gotham City, the land of a thousand stories. One can hardly walk through the night  
without tripping over the uncannily improbably or the eerily uncanny. The heart and soul of the city live in its  
little stories and bizarre characters. The following are five short glimpses into the world of madness, desperation,  
and unwavering devotion. Come, take a walk with me through the night, and see the heart and soul of  
Gotham for yourself.

Disclaimer: In no way, shape, or form do I own any of these characters or the setting.

----------  
Scarecrow

Stalk, stalk, stalking, stalk, stalk, stalk my prey. Isn't it lovely?  
She glances behind her. Excellent. She senses my presence. No, no, no... not in the conscious mind, but in  
the squishy place between the heart and gut-- the place where fear lives. The place where I live.  
The wind blows and the autumn leaves rustle. Good. I snap a twig with my foot. Now she understands that she  
is being followed. Her steps become more hurried, and then, for reasons she cannot possibly comprehend yet, she  
breaks out into a full sprint.  
A whisper from the shadows. "Scream for me, precious." And she does, falling to the ground without  
hesitation. Now, with my prey fallen and helpless, I show her my face-- my true face. She faints.  
Another successful experiment.

-----------  
Riddler

"You must, of course, understand that the use of firearms is hardly my typical method of operation," said the man  
shoving the revolver forcefully against the young man's temple, "They just lack a certain element of grace  
and sophistication-- an idiot's weapon. So easy a caveman could do it. Which reminds me, I hope you have life  
insurance."  
At first, the young man had found it difficult to take this character seriously, dressed all in green  
with a question mark motif. Somehow, the revolver had changed his perspective somewhat.  
"Tonight, however," the green-suited character continued, "I find myself exceptionally bored, and the usual  
heists just won't cut it. There's a question burning between my braincells and I want you, my good man, to answer  
it for me. So, riddle me this; your life may depend on it. What kind of murder follows the kill?"  
This young man was lucky to be an actor, for he was terrible at puzzles and quizzes of all kinds. Mac Wellman,  
he prayed, would save his life.  
"A m-murder of crows," the young man stammered.  
*click*click* The green-suited man pulled back the revolver and held it triumphantly. He turned on his heel  
and walked away, calling back as he went, "Intelligence, my boy. The smart survive; Idiots, well..." And with that  
he was gone.

-----------  
Alfred Pennyworth

Ironing spandex and folding silken underwear. Is this all that life holds for him now? This man, who had  
once been a great actor? The last in the great line of Pennyworths? Does he ever wonder what it's all for? Does he  
ever wish his life had taken a different turn? Is there ever a single moment in which his unwavering determination  
to care for a man barely able to care for anything but the violent take-down of criminals falters?  
Batman falls face-first through the door of the mansion, covered in nasty lacerations and cruel bruises,  
his cape and cowl in tatters.  
"J-Joker's on... on the loose, Alfred... Need to get back out there..."  
"Of course, sir. I shall fix you up right away." He smiles as he stitches the wounds, remembering  
when a simple band aid was enough to care for young Bruce's injuries.  
No. No, it never does falter.

-----------  
Two-Face

Ting. Fwew Fwew Fwew.  
Ting, fwew fwew fwew.  
"You hear that?" A raspy rumbling.  
Ting.  
"That's the sound of your luck running out."  
There's this two-fisted mobster; he's a two-faced monster and everybody knows it, just by the look on his  
faces. He's holding a double-barreled pistol in one hand and a (less pretty) two-headed silver dollar in the other.  
"I don't have time for gags. No gimics. No old movie lines. Don't have time for nothing these days. So,  
what's it gonna be?" The boys, the gang, waited on standby, surrounding the area, all holding thick briefcases at  
the ready. The hostages lay on the floor sobbing; the bank teller kneels before the two-fisted madman.  
Ting, fwew fwew fwew.  
Ting.  
Ca-rack!  
The bank teller is out the moment the mobster lifts the gun, before he even brings it down hard on the back  
of her head.  
A goon jumps behind the counter and starts picking up loot. The scarred mob boss seizes him by the collar  
and pins him up against the wall with one arm. He clenches his coin with the other fist.  
"Look! Good heads!" he snarls.  
"Boss, are you sure you want to-"  
"I said 'Good Heads.'"  
"But it's stupi-"  
Ting, fwew fwew fwew.  
Ting.  
P-kow!  
The goon falls to the ground, leaving traintracks of blood along the wall behind him.  
"Let's go, boys."  
The boys lay their suitcases on the ground. Twenty-seven minutes after they leave, one brave hostage  
gathers up the courage to open one of the suitcases. His eyes are flooded by greenbacks emblazoned with the number  
two. Two-face had left them two million dollars to split between them.

-----------  
Gordan

Paperwork. God I hate paperwork. You ever try convincing the stiffs down in city hall to continue funding  
on a giant, bat-shaped light bulb? Believe me, it's no picnic. You wouldn't believe how much it's insured for.  
So, I'm working m butt off trying to keep this city in one piece and dreading the future arthritis that I  
will no doubt be rewarded with, when Bullock busts into the office with a look on his face like he just won the  
lottery without a ticket.  
"The Bat's brought in another batch for us, Commish," he says with a grin like a bad nut, "They're all  
pleading that their cases be dismissed based on the vigilante's actions. Big Mitch is going to the press with it.  
Probably going to be the longest case this year."  
I didn't say a word, just groaned, knowing what this meant for me.  
"See, that's the trouble with keeping pets," he says,"You gotta clean up after 'em."  
"Just shut up, Bullock," I tell him. I look out the window and see a dark shadow moving along a rooftop. I hear a  
woman cry out for help and then, shortly thereafter, a man. "I'd hate to see what our city would be without him."


End file.
